


;;--> the phoenix

by Black



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Human Revolution, Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: :okay hand emoji:, Adam getting better, Gen, Lonliness, Mentally at least, Rebirth, Self destruction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-08 01:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black/pseuds/Black
Summary: He’s moved past that part - don’t you know what I’m doing? They’ve all looked to him with sad eyes and muttered pleas to turn back from the edge and just as daedalus cried in warning, icarus still flew too close to the sun.Dear David,Dear Faridah,Dear Francis,Remember me fondly.





	1. the first

**Author's Note:**

> i've been obsessed with [Alcatraz by Oliver Riot](https://open.spotify.com/track/1u2CN23PR0T2BHfXRNHwnM) recently and Adam decided he wanted me to write something for him tonight while listening to it. 
> 
> he's not here to further you or satisfy your need to play hero.

_Moving out west, things got lonely_  
_Trying my best, nobody showed me_  
_Which way to go, I didn’t know_

 

“I’m sick of people trying to save me.”

he says aloud to the empty apartment, a glass of whiskey clutched tightly in his hand and there’s an air of tension from the unseen hands that try to guide. try to pull. pull him away.

he’s tired.

path of destruction? maybe. the ground burns under his feet as he blazes forward into the unseen. the dark. the creeping shadows that lull around his feat. beastly. their smiles pearly in the black and he has no choice but to trust them. sometimes they bite. sometimes they yield.

since when do you know best?

you don’t,  
but neither does he.

but he doesn’t need saving, he needs understanding. how could you have been so blind? the hand that guides had clawed into his back, tore the flesh and exposed the faux spine to the corrosion and he had fought off the rust the ridicule the rancor. you tried to pull him back

and succeeded in pulling skin.

destruction isn’t always inherently negative - in conjunction with the phoenix that crawls from the ruined ashes of its body. who’s to say that he won’t be as majestic? let it burn - let it bury in his skin and seed into his suffering. sewn. ripe with leather and liquor.

saving is inaccurate. a hand to hold is better. he’s rarely had the thought, the notion. the lacing of fingers in the bitterness he’s felt. you get sick of holding your own - so how are you fairing?

curled like an animal and tired, hunched over in the back and he’s burning. shoulders crumpling under the ache of a job well done and there’s a suicidal tendency in people like me - pulling at the muscle until it loosens. stringing and bloodied, caught in the teeth of helping hands.

helping hands.

read that again - have you bloodied your fingers with me?

“Stop,” he begs again, quietly this time as he remains fixated on the trembling television, “please.”

the noise, the cacophony.  
the silence.

where have you gone?

he looks over his shoulder and back into the darkness, eyes fixated on the fizzle of static in the void. the blank space where you promised to be. thick or thin. rivets of blood. of fire. of feathers. fur. fangs.

he exists in a space of self-indulgence, self-destruction. a murdering of the self upon a path set of his own accord. it gave me wings,

so i ate those too. icarus fell into the sea and drowned. i fell into the sea and lived - inhaled the salt and the shore and saw myself further from where i wanted to be. i had resigned to die.

that was my choice.

i just wanted you to hold my hand.

but he burned, he lived again. brighter, sharper than before. eyes fluid and screaming, halted with a predator’s screech. _who are you?_ i’m not Adam, but i’m not sure i ever wanted him to come back.

“I’m sick of people trying to save me,” he says into the whiskey as he pours it into the glass, unsure of why he’s even bothering with the transfer. so mundane. he loses more that way.

so he drinks it straight from the bottle.

drops back onto the couch.

tilts his head back and swallows. sighs. says his prayers and commiserates with himself. stop trying to solve my problems. i’m working on it. i just want you to acknowledge the fire i've set to forge new skin.

you can’t save anyone.

you can only suggest.


	2. the second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you still want to pen me as hopeless - i'll allow it.  
> you've not seen how tall i've grown. 
> 
> keep blind, little bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes, you just have a day.

he must look like a fool, pacing around the ghostly innards of his apartment while he cradles the cup of whiskey in his hands. close to his chest. desperate. 

desperate?

rephrase. 

_destructive_. 

ah, okay. sure. to burn and burn again. throat sick and sedentary. balled behind his eyes and he clears the dust swirling stillness that’s gathered around him as he stalks. he steps over the papers. how long have those been there? he steps over the papers.

exists by the window. cigarette clutched between his fingers and lazily trailing smoke and he glances out over his little chunk of hell as he takes a drag. the sentinel chirps. he barely recognizes it anymore. 

it chatters softly the longer that he holds the smoke between his teeth.    
chewing, chewing

over thoughts. words. wisdom. of all the things he’s read in his books over a number of years and his eyes burn from the lack of sleep that haunts his veins. he’s forgotten his name. 

we’re Adam, right?

he brings the whiskey to his lips and he feels the fire in his skin again. curling. curling. licking and whipping. prickling sharp and rolling to his wrists. squeeze the glass. 

will it break?  
only if i let it. 

he eases.

for all the wrongs he’s wrought upon himself, they have feathered. sewn into his skin and birthed his wings. icarus was made of wax and wonder. he would be made of blood and blunder. stumbling. gluing the pieces to himself that he thought he needed. 

only to tear them off. skin included. 

i will continue, he thinks. thanks his careful steps. tightrope. justice. sectioned off and he is twitterpated with the setting sun. the swollen red glitters through the floating dust. the embers of his flaring failures.

his mistakes.

and aren’t they beautiful…?


	3. the third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All the world's a stage,  
>  And all the men and women merely players;  
> They have their exits and their entrances,  
> And one man in his time plays many parts,  
> His acts being seven ages.  
> ...  
> Last scene of all,  
> That ends this strange eventful history,  
> Is second childishness and mere oblivion,  
> Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything._

See, that’s the funny thing about people.

They call it saving you and then project their own insecurities onto you in the process. Adam eases himself back down into the seat of the train and tilts his head against the window. It’s cold. It’s always cold. He’s always cold.

But today, he warms.

It festers in his chest and this is his escape.

It’s never been his escape. It’s usually the cold. The talk of people wanting to save him. The talk of people who have no business wanting to save others trying to save him. This is something he must do alone.

Don’t they understand that?

He runs his tongue against his teeth and this is a stand alone chapter to his life. His heavy shoulders are no longer burdened by the waxing and waning of the moon and the sun is rising over the mountains.

Prague is something distant.  
Adam will not be returning.

Koller was a careful goodbye. The mechanic knew something was up and Adam didn’t have to tell him much. He glanced over his augs. Held his hands. Squeezed them. Told him that he’d see him soon, man.

He had almost expected a fight.

_Thanks for understanding, kid._

On his way out, he had caught a glimpse of a dog eared shakespeare book. It brings him back to highschool for a moment. to college for a moment. to the train. eyes flickering back open as the sun shines so brightly that it briefly blinds him.

All the world's a stage, right?  
He never really was much of an actor.

Adam had decided that he couldn’t wait for the opening scene anymore, he didn’t want to keep stagnant and miserable. Day in and day out in that apartment waiting for the chapter that would kickstart his demise.

So, why not chase it?

And so he plays his part.

Adam Jensen reaches up to hold the side of his neck and give it a gentle squeeze. trails his fingers up to his jaw and down his neatly groomed beard. Have you ever been pressed into a quiet room and your ears begin to ring and something doesn’t sit right?

He can almost see the seams of the set.

Static. It’s wormed itself into his head and fixates on the sun. The plume of fire out and over the glittering water. Where is he going? To audition. He will burn, choke on feathers plucked from his throat and he bows to the guns pressed to the sides of his temple.

sans teeth, sans eyes, sans fire

he hopes they pull the trigger right this time.

This is acceptance, this isn’t depression.  
demise.

He’s moved past that part - don’t you know what I’m doing? They’ve all looked to him with sad eyes and muttered pleas to turn back from the edge and just as daedalus cried in warning, icarus still flew too close to the sun.

Dear David,  
Dear Faridah,  
Dear Francis,

Remember me fondly.

_Do not resuscitate._

You cannot save me, there is nothing to save. I’m not in danger, I never have been. These are the strings I’ve taken back from the puppeteer that thought he could drag me back from a certain death.

I will run no longer.

Adam Jensen steps off of the train and into the warmth -  
sans everything.


End file.
